A Walk in the Park
by My Barbaric YAWP
Summary: On the way back from the museum, Holden takes a trip through the park.


In the words of Garrison Keillor, this story "is for the English teachers, especially the great ones." This insertion was written for one of the best; a man who said, "You want to be the next great American writer? Drop out of school now and grab a bottle—no, seriously, now!" and "You should all aspire to become adjectives!" and introduced _The Sound and the Fury_ in Faulkner's own words—"It's a sonofabitch…" He retired last year, and in his honor I offer this homage to one of his favorite characters: Holden Caulfield.

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Chapter 16.5

The rest of the park was pretty empty heading back from the museum. The wind was back and it made everything sort of cold and lonesome. The trees were bare and the snow was all brown and gritty and—what was worse—you could kind of see where it used to be all smooth and white—only it had these mucky dog prints running right through it. It was really depressing, if you want to know the truth. Things like that just depress the hell out of me.

Anyway, I got to thinking about those ducks again. Thinking about where they went, I mean. I mean, they probably fly south and all, and that's fine, but what about if the winter comes early? What then? I mean it's all fine, say, if they're expecting it and all, but sometimes we get these really crazy snow storms—just out of the blue. What then? It's really crumby for those little ducks and all if they're all ready to take off, say, and a huge pile of snow gets dumped on them. How are they supposed to know?

Anyway, I was thinking about the ducks when I sort of ran into this little kid—my eyes just sort of missed him, that's how little he was. He was staring at my kneecaps with his thumb in his mouth and he was clutching on to this candy bar with his other hand. I tried talking to him and all, but he just kept staring at my kneecaps. It's sort of unnerving—having someone staring at your kneecaps, I mean. It's unnerving no matter how little they are.

So I sort of bent down—to get on the kid's level, you know. Well, I was on my knees, trying to meet this kid's eyes and all because I figured I'd rather have him staring at my eyes than my knees, but the kid just started staring at his candy bar instead. Like his candy bar was gonna start talking to him or something—like this candy bar was the most fascinating thing this kid had ever seen. It killed me.

Anyway, I started playing peek-a-boo with this kid—not really involved or anything—just sort of waving my hands in front of him and pretending I was disappearing every time I ducked behind my own hands. The funny thing was, after a minute or two, I started feeling like I really was disappearing. I hate stuff like that, when you start disappearing during peek-a-boo or something. Anyway, the kid wouldn't take his eyes off the candy bar and all and I started thinking, well, who knew? You know? Who knew? And peek-a-boo's pretty boring anyway—I mean if the kid's just staring at his candy bar, say, it can be pretty boring.

So I stood up and started looking around for his brother or something because a little kid like that shouldn't be all alone, not in some big park in the dead of winter, not like that. I was looking around, but the whole place was just sort of lonely—empty I mean. It was pretty depressing. I mean, what kind of crumby brother leaves a little kid like that out all alone. It depressed the hell out of me. It really did.

Finally, I looked back down at him. He was still standing there, eyes glued to the candy bar. At least he could have eaten it. I mean, you're lost and all, you might as well eat the goddamn candy bar. But kids are like that. They won't eat a candy bar till they know they have a spare or something. It kills me. It really does.

"Com'on kid, I'll get you a candy bar. You can eat that one now 'cause I'll get you another one." I started walking out of the park to a sweet shop we used to take Phoebe to, Allie, DB, and I, I mean.

I looked behind me and the kid was following me sure enough, still staring at the candy bar. It killed me. Here he was, lost or something, and all he cared about was that goddamn candy bar. Kids are like that.

Anyway, we were heading toward the gate and I was telling him about this new candy bar and all, when this shriek just stopped me dead—the little kid ran into my knees, that's how fast I stopped.

I turned around and suddenly, there's this girl on the ground, sort of latched on to the little kid and all. I tried getting a word in edgewise, but this girl was shrieking so loud—fussing over this boy—I couldn't hardly hear myself think, never mind talk.

I took the moment to sort of look her over, just to sort of see who she was and all. I didn't give her the old eye or anything. She was something, was what she was. She looked about my age and she had on this sweet little red cap that made her look like something, boy. I mean that cap looked really good on her—resting on top of her brown curls and all. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips were red and she'd have looked really pretty if she'd stopped screaming long enough.

She kept fussing over the kid—retying his scarf and pulling his hat down over his ears. It really got me thinking, you know, about how people will fuss and all over what a kid's wearing, say, and then just lose him in a park or something.

Finally, her shrieking slowed down to a level where I could make out real words.

"Eddie, I swear you'll be the death of me! Where on earth have you been?"

Well, I thought she'd really like to know, you know? I mean, say I lost Phoebe or something—just say I did—I'd want to know she'd been alright when I found her again. So I said, "I found him on my way out of here. We were going to get a candy bar."

She glared at me. I find her brother and all, and she glared at me.

"He has a candy bar."

"I know that. But he won't eat it, so I was getting him one so he would." It made perfect sense to me, but she was giving me an eye like my mother can give when she's in the mood—kind of skeptical and all knowing—like everything you've ever done wrong's being laid bare in that one look. She was wrong of course, but then so is my mother most of the time.

"He doesn't need another candy bar." She took the candy bar from his hands, ripped the wrapper open, and started giving him pieces. Then they were both eating chocolate and I was just sort of standing there. I mean at least she could have offered me a piece of chocolate—I would have refused it and all, but at least she could have offered.

"Listen, I got to take off soon—got a date, you know. Can I buy you a candy bar?"

"No, thank you."

She wouldn't even look at me for God's sake, just kept fussing with the kid's goddamn candy bar. It's not like I stole him for God's sake—not like I abandoned him either. I almost felt like pointing that out to her or something. Only reason I didn't, I thought she might cry or something. That's the kind of yellow bastard I am. I mean, someone should have told her not to leave a little kid like that out all alone, only I couldn't because—with her running hot and cold and all—she might cry and then I wouldn't know what to do. I mean, she was so pretty and all, in that little red cap, if she started crying, I might lose it and start comforting her or something, and I'd mean it, too. I always mean it, when it happens, that just the trouble. Anyway, I'd say it was OK and all, and she'd remember that instead of to keep an eye on that little kid and then what would be the point? What the hell would be the point?

That's the problem with pretty girls. You can't tell them anything without apologizing. You got to hope they know enough on their own and all, but they can't because no one can tell them anything.

I mean, a plain girl—well, she's not much to look at or anything, but she'd know enough not to leave some little kid out in the cold all alone.

She stood up, finally, and crumpled up the wrapper. She sort of just stood there, poker straight and all, staring right past my left ear—like she'd catch something if she looked directly at me. She took old Eddie's hand and smiled brightly at something behind me—teeth all white and sparkling like the snow before the dog got to it.

"Well, we have to be going. So nice to have met you—"

I wanted to say Holden Caulfield—I really did, but I opened up that born-to-lie mouth of mine and said, "Bately, Brent Bately," all suave and smooth as hell.

"Nice to have met you, Brent," and then she turned that smile right on me and boy, I thought maybe I was in love or something. I really did.

She walked past me, dragging old Eddie along by the hand. He was looking back at me with big eyes and a mouth smeared with chocolate, and I started regretting not telling her my real name and all.

"Wait—"

She turned around and the smile was gone, but I couldn't stop, not then anyway. I couldn't say my name either—that's the kind of yellow bastard I am. "You want to get a hot chocolate sometime or something?"

She sort of pursed her lips at that. I think she was pretty sore, to tell you the truth. Then she smiled, but you could tell it was just to be polite and all. "You'll be late, Mr. Bately. Have a good afternoon."

Well, the thing is, she was probably right. I mean about being late and all, so I checked my watch. I looked up in time to see her and old Eddie turn the corner at the park gate.

I started heading toward the gate, too, thinking about that red cap and the curls sort of tossed all over by the wind. And then I got to thinking about old Sally Hayes. She's probably one of the best looking girls I know—you'd forgive her anything, she's that pretty—only I don't know if she'd know not to leave that little kid all alone out in the cold and all. I didn't know—I really didn't—and that sort of just depressed the hell out of me.


End file.
